Bleeding in Black and White

by Colin Cotterill

  “Shit.” The man felt around on the floor for the cap and pressed it back onto the opened bottle. “Why you no say so?”

  “Just out of interest,” Palmer asked, “how much would that beer have cost me?”

  “Beer? Four dollar.”

  “Goodness me. Then you really would have had to shoot us.”

  To their dismay, the lady on the stage was still walking up and down in stiletto heels like a housewife at the supermarket. But now her paper skirt had come adrift from her thick thighs and she was unbuttoning the jacket. Bodge hoped they could get away before they had to witness anything unpleasant.

  Denholm leaned across the bar and smiled at the barman who ignored him.

  “Were you here last Friday night?”

  “Without looking up the barman said, “Sorry, I no speak English.”

  “You’re from China?” Palmer asked.

  “No.”

  “Where then?”

  “Hong Kong.”

  At that point, the special ops man launched into an impressive barrage of what Bodge assumed to be Cantonese. The barman blossomed at the sound. Suddenly the two were good friends engaged in a light-hearted private conversation. Bodge and Denholm had little choice but to watch the show.

  Beneath the crepe the lady wore a stained set of pink panties and brassiere with tassels. They could see her counting the rhythm out loud. It was approximately twenty beats between each removal, although she obviously had difficulty counting and prancing at the same time. The three old men were transfixed as if they’d spent the past seventy years in a cloth bag and had just been released for this feast of flesh.

  The brassiere clip was in the front. On the count of twenty-one she unfastened it to unleash her modest top. Her breasts were slightly shriveled and appeared to be magnetically opposed to one another. When she noticed Bodge looking at her, she ran her tongue over her lips and wiggled those breasts seductively for him. He was saved by Palmer and the Chinaman who passed him and headed for a curtained exit to the right of the stage. Bodge followed but Denholm stood his ground. Bodge hoped it was just his duty to watch their backs rather than a desire to see the end of the show.

  Behind the stage was a dressing room as long and narrow as the aisle on a Greyhound bus. A second “dancer” was wedged at the far end of it. She was as gloriously painted as the first but didn’t share her gifts of youth and beauty. At first Bodge supposed the owner had slipped out of her booth and was doubling as an entertainer. But Fifi was much more pleasant than her boss. She was amiable and helpful and talking to her was like chatting with a well-loved aunt. Except Bodge’s aunt was less likely to be applying lipstick to her nipples as she spoke.

  She knew the area well and was able to give them the names of other dives around that Bodge and Lou might have visited. She even knew of a supper club for the upper classes that was tucked down behind a department store. And there was no doubt that Bouncers had been closed. Both Fifi and the Chinaman swore to it. Bodge and Palmer collected Denholm on their way out. He was leaning on the bar with his back to the stage. The lady had shed her remaining vestment and was showing the enrapt audience what other uses there were for fresh fruit. They didn’t notice the newcomers leave. There was no world for them beyond the banana.

  Again, Bodge was attracted by the neon Nescafé cup in the window of the café three doors along. He suggested they have a final drink there before calling it a night. They were all beat and frustrated and not at all in the mood for hanging around in dives. The café was surprisingly bohemian and out of place in that particular area. But there was nothing familiar about it to Bodge. Jazz music played from a phonograph behind the counter.

  It was a nice, cozy place just asking to get knocked over by any drunk or addict that passed by. The music system alone was worth a good hundred dollars. There was a stringy youth working behind the counter. He wore denim even though his accent didn’t suggest he was a farmer. His hair wasn’t long enough to call him a beatnik, but Bodge was sure it still annoyed the boy’s parents.

  “How you doing, fellas?” he smiled and walked over to their table. There weren’t any other customers to look after.

  “Three coffees, thanks,” Bodge said.

  “Sure. What type?”

  “Coffee’s got types?” Denholm asked.

  “Sure does,” the boy put him straight. He brought over the menu to prove it. Alongside tea and soft drinks there were no fewer than five different brands of percolated coffee listed there. They were all new to Bodge. He caught the numbers written beside them and knew straight away why the place was deserted.

  “Do you get to keep the table and chairs for these prices?” he asked smiling at Palmer. His boss looked out at the dark street through the grimy window.

  “Come on guys. These coffees are hard to come by.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Bodge asked. “You got any of that exotic European coffee advertised on the sign in the window there?”

  “That’s instant.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what type of investment are we talking here?”

  “Twenty-five cents…each.”

  “Holy Mackerel.”

  “Come on, Bodge,” Palmer calmed him. “It’s a nice enough place, good music, and I’m sure the coffee will be delicious. Am I right, son?”

  “It’s hard to screw up a cup of instant.”

  “See? Let’s live dangerously. Three of your finest instant coffees please, young man.”

  “Yes, sir.” He was about to walk away when Bodge asked,

  “You have anything to eat here?” They hadn’t eaten since lunch and his mind was convincing him he was hungry.

  “Brownies and packaged fruit cake.”

  “No food?”

  “Not if you don’t call brownies and fruit cake food. No.”

  “When’s your busiest time, son?” Denholm asked. “Assuming you have one.”

  “Don’t know. Early evening, I guess. Office people on their ways home. Then again after the bars shut.”

  “And they can all afford these fancy prices?”

  “Some. Yeah. There are a lot of connoisseurs around who’d travel for a great coffee. These are rare. They’re like the Hope Diamond of coffees.”

  “I believe that. ‘Except you don’t piss the Hope Diamond down the john at the end of the night.”

  “Look. I don’t know, you know?” the boy said without actually saying anything. “You should talk to the owner. I just say what he tells me.”

  “We know. Don’t worry about it,” Bodge smiled. “And bring me a slice of that fruit cake.”

  “Coming up.”

  “I don’t know,” Denholm said half to himself. “I smell something odd here and it sure isn’t coffee.”

  16.

  Ban Methuot

  The inspector of schools, M. Petit sat in the vestibule of Le Residence mopping the sweat from his neck with a large white handkerchief. Even with the front and rear doors wide open, there was no breeze. It had been some kind of insanity that transported French fashion to the Far East. In that sticky 90 degree heat he wore a tie and a sodden white jacket. It was expected of callers on official business. He was a slender, rather pretty young man: the type who would age like an old woman. Locals often remembered his blond hair but not his face.

  Although Petit was unsure as to what Administrator Dupré did to deserve his inflated salary, he’d been a hard man to make an appointment with. It had been over a week since he’d put in his request for an audience, and the reply had only arrived that morning during his breakfast. He’d hurriedly cancelled two school visits in order to be here by eleven. But the grandfather clock had just chimed the three-quarter hour and still nobody had seen him. He didn’t even get a glass of water for his troubles. So he sat, and sweated and cursed under his breath. The smells of cooking, of partridge and venison, were wafting through the large hall. Petit was sure whatever little time he had left wo
uld be interrupted by the luncheon gong.

  “Ah, so you’re M. Petit. I’ve seen you around.”

  He looked up to see a slim woman in fine white silks. If the day weren’t so stifling, she might have come direct from the tennis court with her short skirt and white sneakers. There was something sporty about her. He stood and bowed. She walked over to him and laughed. “I’m not the empress, you know?” He found her accent rather rough.

  She took his hand and, after a cursory flick of her wrist, kept hold of it.

  “You’re Mme. Dupré?”

  “I know. Pity isn’t it. Goodness me, you’re sweating like a hog. What on earth are you wearing a coat for on a day like this?”

  “I was told it was mandatory.”

  “Really?” She snorted rudely. “Golly. You must be a teacher with such language.” She still had hold of his fingers although he was slowly sliding from her grasp.

  “Yes. I am,” he smiled. “Or rather, I was. Right now I’m the inspector of schools.”

  “And what did you teach, dear M. Petit?”

  “French and English literature.”

  “English? How I’d love to speak English. I don’t suppose you could tutor me, could you?”

  She’d said the word “tutor” in a way he’d never heard it said in his life. It made him feel suddenly uneasy. She may have even winked although it was quite hard to be sure there in the shadows of the vestibule.

  “I’m sure we could come to some arrangement.”

  “That’s what I’d hoped. I really must help you out of that jacket.” Before he could protest or remove it himself, she was behind him. Her fingers seemed to explore his damp chest as she peeled back the lapels. Her pert breasts nuzzled impudently into his back. He felt like a victim of some sort of sexual attack but still missed a heartbeat when the Administrator himself appeared across the hall.

  “M. Dupré? I am M. Petit,” he babbled. It was a foolish introduction as they’d met before at the official reception. Dupré made out his wife in the shadows.

  “Monique? What are you doing, my dear?”

  She stepped out from behind Petit with his jacket in her hand. “I’m removing his clothing. You don’t mind, do you? The poor inspector was dripping.”

  “No. No, that’s fine. Come in here, lad. Come in.” He turned back into his office. Petit looked back at his jacket and into Mme. Dupré’s elfin face.

  “You can get it,” she said. “Any time you want it.”

  He sighed and walked unsteadily to the office. There had been no misunderstanding. He had been propositioned by the governor’s wife. He was relieved to find himself in the light, spacious room that Dupré had adopted as his work room. Fans of various sizes blew gales back and forth across the room. Every stack of documents was anchored down with a paperweight. The portraits flapped on the walls. Dupré sat at an enormous desk and gestured for the guest to sit opposite. It felt significant to Petit that there had been no handshake.

  “I’ve been meaning to have a word with you,” said Dupré, forgetting it was the teacher who’d called for the meeting. “I haven’t yet got around to your last report. Don’t know when I shall. Perhaps you could just tell me from memory how many of our Montagnard villages still don’t have schools?”

  “You mean buildings?”

  “What else would I mean?” Petit could think of a number of things; teachers, books, equipment, all those sundries that turned a place into a school.

  “In that case, about twenty.”

  “Good. So I imagine that many could be put up before the end of the dry season.”

  “The buildings aren’t so hard.”

  “Splendid.”

  “But we would need a serious teacher training program and work on the curriculum in order to staff them.”

  “Surely that’s what we have you for, isn’t it?”

  “The schedule I’m expected to follow is full of inspections. There’s no time to train or write.”

  “Right. Well, in that case, forget teachers. Let’s focus on the buildings. Our policy is to have a school in every village.”

  “Whether they teach anything or not?”

  “I doubt anyone in Paris would blame us for that. If the savages don’t have anyone bright enough to teach it’s hardly our fault, is it now?’

  “They’re certainly bright enough. It’s just—”

  “Don’t let it worry you. Twenty more schools. Splendid. I’ll pass the news on when I’m next in Saigon. There was nothing else was there?” He turned a page of his ledger as if the chapter on Petit were over.

  “There is one more thing,” Petit said. Dupré looked at his watch. “It’s very important.”

  “Very well.”

  “I’ve had a report about a woman vanishing from her home.”

  “What? My goodness. Have you informed the Sureté?”

  “Yes. But they need authorization from you to pursue the case.”

  “From me? Why in blazes would they need that?”

  “Because the accused kidnapper is a foreign national.”

  “Heavens above. Who was the victim?”

  “The younger sister of one of our administrators.”

  “But that’s disgraceful. Who…? One of our administrators? You don’t mean one of our village administrators?”

  “Yes, I do.” The look of relief came over Dupré as clearly as if a pot of white paint had been emptied onto his head.

  “So she’s Moi.”

  “Montagnard, that’s right. But that shouldn’t…”

  “M. Petit. Don’t you think our police aren’t busy enough with crimes against our own citizens?”

  “With respect, Governor Dupré, it’s a French administration that’s running the country under French law. The Montagnard are fighting in our army against the Viet Minh and laboring in French plantations. Don’t you think as a show of faith we could demonstrate that French law isn’t blind to injustices against them?”

  “Petit. Petit, my young friend. Can you imagine what a precedent this would set?”

  “I can imagine a very good one.”

  “Son, every laborer and servant and whore in the country would try their hand at bringing charges against us if they thought there were a few piastres to be made out of it.”

  “If the law finds them in the right, I don’t—”

  “Enough. I think you should go home and cool off. The heat has obviously affected your mind. Have a cool beer and rethink your master plan for our little colony. I believe it’s lunch time.” He stood and closed the ledger. “Good day M. Petit. Get working on those schools, now. Don’t forget, twenty by April.”

  17.

  In Little Italy Bodge stood in the shadows of the elementary school opposite Lou’s apartment. It was after two. It wasn’t that he expected Lou to sneak back in the middle of the night. He just wanted to see how things looked early in the morning — imagine Lou passed out on his stoop — get a better idea of possibilities. And he wanted to do this without his minders breathing down his neck.

  Nothing spectacular happened for a half hour. Old Italian ladies with shopping baskets merged in and out of the lamplight, sleepwalking to imaginary late-night food stores. Or maybe they knew things Bodge didn’t. There was the sound of yelling from first this upstairs window then some other. He couldn’t imagine being in a relationship where yelling was compulsory. But, in fact, he could no longer imagine himself in a relationship. Then there were the rats. It was astounding how they took over the city after nightfall. He hadn’t done a lot of staring at streets. He imagined them finding Lou on his doorstep and eating him alive. More and more he was seeing his friend dead.

  Suddenly, the light in Mrs. Harris’ hallway came on and lit the pretty stained glass in the front door. It was just after two. The door opened and an ancient man with arthritic legs shuffled out and down the steps. Hanging over his arm was a white poodle that appeared to have been filleted. He carried it down to the curb and lowered it to the road.
He didn’t take his hand away until the wobbling animal found its balance. It shuddered a little then started to shit. No squat or anything. When it was through, the man picked it up and carried it back up to the stoop. Neither the man nor the dog seemed remotely aware of what had just happened.

  Bodge jogged over the street and up the steps before the man could close the door. Now, most of the neurotics in New York would have had a heart attack if something like Bodge ran up to them at two in the morning, but the old man just turned round in response to the “excuse me”, and smiled.

  “How you doing young fella?”

  “Hi. You walking your dog?”

  “Just emptying him out.”

  “I don’t suppose this is a regular thing by any chance.”

  “Sure is. Same time every morning the little fucker’s yapping at the end of the bed. Why? You with the city council?”

  “No. I was just wondering whether you might have seen anything odd on Saturday about this time.”

  “Saturday. Saturday. Oh, hell yes. That was the night both me and the dog shit ourselves.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was coming down like I always do. But just as I’m about to turn on the light, somebody goes and rings the doorbell.”

  “Did you see who it was?”

  “No. But all the residents here have keys. I wasn’t about to open the door to a stranger at two in the morning. There’s a bad element moving in to these streets. I put on the light to scare him away. He didn’t ring again.”

  “And you didn’t go outside?”

  “Didn’t need to by then. Trigger here has a finely tuned bowel. He knows how long it takes to get to the street. With us getting sidetracked there in the hall, poor Trigger’s mechanism had already started. Little fucker embarrassed himself. I had to clean it all up before the old lush came round.”